


Sehnsucht, nicht länger verschweigbar

by Witchy1ness



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: F/M, fair warning continuing the movie's trend of 'haha-nope!' kissing scenes, if you can't block sexy times in person a phone call works too
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-04
Updated: 2018-02-04
Packaged: 2019-03-12 18:58:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13553565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Witchy1ness/pseuds/Witchy1ness
Summary: Napoleon, she thinks, would be fun. He’d know what to say, what to do to make sure she’d enjoy it. But is physical pleasure the only thing she's looking for?





	Sehnsucht, nicht länger verschweigbar

**Author's Note:**

> All recognizable characters are the property of Ian Fleming and Warner Bros., I'm just borrowing them :)
> 
>  Title Translation: Longing, No Longer Concealing
> 
>  
> 
> Reviews and constructive criticism welcome; flames will be ignored.

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Napoleon, she thinks, would be fun. 

Thinks she might even shock him, if she asked. 

He’d know what to say, what to do to make sure she’d enjoy it (and enjoy it _fully_ , if the rather uncomfortable number of times she and Illya have played reluctant eavesdroppers is any indication). He’d know exactly where and how to touch; how to use his hands, his mouth, his body – because that is what he _does_. 

Gaby doesn’t know if it’s something he’s refined _doing_ espionage work; or something he’s refined _during_ espionage work, but the difference is a moot point.

She’s not blind either. 

Solo is a very good-looking man; dark hair long enough for a girl to run her fingers through, piercing eyes with that oh-so-kissable dimple in his chin, and a body (like all his weapons) kept in fighting trim. 

The problem is _why_ he’d be good at it. 

Gaby doesn’t consider herself to be prudish or judgmental about things of this nature, but the thought of being one of dozens (hundreds?) is not particularly attractive. Not that she expects (or wants) Solo to take the time to court her and whatnot, but she’s got enough self-esteem that the thought of being another – what was the American saying? – _notch on his belt_ thrills her about as much as the idea of dropping a carburetor on her foot does. 

And having grown up behind the Iron Curtain, life-long lessons of hoarding and hiding what is most important have instilled in Gaby a – and she is honest with herself, at least – rather strong proprietary and possessive instinct. 

Which was yet another reason as to why she and Napoleon would never work out. 

Considering how often he needs (chooses) to exercise that particular skill set of his, it would drive her insane with jealousy in very short order. 

And Napoleon would never allow that; never allow something that would interfere with the job – and getting his freedom back, and wasn’t _that_ an interesting story when she’d finally wiggled it out of him – and then that would be the end of U.N.C.L.E. and Waverley would never let her hear the end of it. 

No, the relationship between herself and the American agent would remain firmly as it was – as not-quite-yet-equal partners and friends. 

As for her one-time fiancé, that was where things got…complicated. 

He…interested her. She couldn’t quite bring herself to say she _liked_ him, because truthfully, there were times he just flat-out scared her (not that she let it show, because _someone_ had to try and talk him out of those fits when he couldn’t just be let loose on hapless furniture and/or enemies, and Napoleon was likely to be mistaken for a punching bag if he was in the room), and then there were times when he seemed to pretend she wasn’t even in the room. 

All of which irked her to no end, and usually resulted in her either drinking her way into bed, or angrily challenging Napoleon to a spar (and Gaby pretended she didn’t understand him when he grumbled about locking them in a closet). 

Oh, Gaby was definitely _attracted_ to him; she could admit that – foolish to pretend otherwise, given that she’d tried to kiss the infuriating man twice (she doesn’t remember the first almost-kiss, veins swimming with vodka). 

And she’d bet Solo’s collection of silk ties that Illya felt the same way about her. And she’s pretty sure they could have one hell of a good time together. But then what? Gaby doesn’t even know what _she_ wants from Illya; never mind what _he_ wants from _her_. 

Her thoughts swirl and tangle around themselves, and she finally gives up and shoves the whole mess to the back of her mind, where it stays until the night after a successful op. There’s nothing about the operation she can blame it on; things had gone surprisingly well – she’d gone in, stolen the information, and gotten out with no one the wiser. 

Relaxing in her room in a hotel all the way across town – Gaby is here as a tourist, while Solo and Illya aren’t, technically, even here – her veins are swimming with a mix of vodka and crashing adrenaline as she reclines on one of the double beds, watching as her fellow agents discuss the intel she’s picked up, unaware that her tangled conundrum is beginning to unravel. 

Solo is wearing his version of casual clothes, clad only in navy dress pants and a pale blue dress shirt with his sleeves rolled up, revealing strong forearms. Gaby lazily traces her gaze from his hands up to his shoulders, enjoying the way the well-tailored shirt hugs his broad shoulders. 

Illya also has his sleeves pushed up, and the light glints off his father’s watch as he points to something in one of the documents. Dressed head-to-toe black, she admires the way it contrasts with his blonde hair. If Gaby were more poetic than prosaic she might think he looks like an angel, but Illya looks up at that exact moment, and the flash in his eyes that she can see even across the room as their eyes meet puts her more in mind of the devil inviting her to sin.  
She’s no longer so sure she wants to avoid the temptation. 

At this point Solo looks up, and noticing his partner’s distraction turns and catches her watching them.

“See something you like?” he snarks with a grin. 

“Yes,” she agrees, and fights back a bubble of laughter as her answer causes both men to still. 

Napoleon is, unsurprisingly, the first to recover. 

“Really,” he drawls, that slow smile of his guaranteed to melt the hearts (and certain other body parts) of any female; unfortunately for him, she’s seen it so often – and has enough liquor in her – that it merely slides right off. 

“And just what, exactly, is it that you like?” 

A slow smile of her own creeps across her face, and Gaby deliberately doesn’t answer, just throws back her head and laughs; moving to cross one ankle demurely over the other, the hand holding her drink draped negligently over her knee, the other coming up to tap her chin. 

She hums in thought before saying, “The view.”

“The view?” Illya repeats quizzically, flicking a glance towards the curtain-covered windows. 

She giggles tipsily and Napoleon’s smile widens. 

“I think she means _us_ , Peril.”

Illya’s blue eyes widen fractionally, before narrowing in swift calculation.

It’s all Gaby can do to not burst out laughing as she watches how divergently the two men react to her little bombshell. 

Napoleon reclines in his seat, all lazy languor, practically radiating sex; Illya, on the other hand, sits military-straight in his seat, hands on his thighs as his gaze bores into hers. So caught in his intense gaze Gaby misses the way Solo’s blue eyes flick between her and the Russian, a wicked smirk playing on his lips. 

“Well,” he says loudly, and Gaby breaks her staring contest with Illya to look quizzically at the American. “I think the rest of this – the intel, I mean – can wait until, ah, later. I’m rather tired, so I think I’ll turn in.” 

“It’s only half-past 8,” Gaby points out suspiciously. 

Solo smiles at her, which only deepens her suspicion because she can tell that’s a smiling-at-a-mark look. “I never said _alone_ ”, he continues smugly, swiftly gathering up the materials and placing them in a folded newspaper. 

And this, here, is exactly why she has no interest in pursuing anything with the American agent. If they had been in an intimate relationship, there was no way she’d be able to smile and wave him off (her vodka-tinged brain conveniently doesn’t point out that if they were intimate _she’d_ be the one going with him).

But they aren’t so she does, nearly spilling her drink as Illya’s dry comment of “Ride ‘em Cowboy,” sends her into a fit of hysterics.

She jumps a little when said man is suddenly close enough to pluck the nearly empty tumbler from her hand, giggles turning to a small gasp when his fingers brush hers. He places the glass neatly on the nightstand, impressive when his gaze hasn’t left hers. 

The simmer in her veins starts to flare, and she finds herself taking in slow shallow breaths. Illya hasn’t straightened up from taking her glass, and his black-clad body looming over hers makes her suddenly feel very, very small. 

This is, of course, when the phone rings. 

They curse in unison, her in German and him in Russian as he snatches up the receiver, quickly hanging up only a few moments later and beginning to gather their things.

“We need to go,” he says tersely, and the new adrenaline coursing through her system clears her head enough to help him grab everything and be out the back door in less than ten minutes (Napoleon meets them in the hallway; having heard the phone through the thin walls and immediately discerning the reason).

It’s not fast enough, as it turns out. 

Behind the wheel, Gaby takes a corner sharply enough the car almost tips, nearly unseating both men from where they’re hanging out the windows exchanging fire with their pursuers.

Illya’s cursing in a curious mix of Russian and German, and Solo is – inexplicably – laughing. “Still liking the view, Gaby?” he shouts merrily, American cockiness practically oozing out of him. 

She just laughs in response and puts her foot down. 

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**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


End file.
